Little Whisper

I feel different today. Maybe it is the ladder running down my leg and across my thigh. Maybe it is that I don’t care about the ladder because I know how accidents can happen and I don’t know how this one happened but I know these tights only had holes for my legs when I put them on this morning, and so, somewhere between there and then, I had an accident. I didn’t notice so it’s surely not my fault. I feel inspired today. Maybe it is because there is a Russian girl sitting across from me, who is smarter, slimmer, prettier than me, in fact she is much cleverer than me; studying for six years, she should be managing financial accounts and not wiping the nose of the one we so affectionately call Jabba. As it is, she works as hard as I do and makes less money. Because I was born in a bed in this country and not hers and, because both my mother and my mother tongue are English I can earn more than her here. In two years time her English will be like Olivers – in that it will be better than mine – and she will make a fortune. She will be on the other side. The weather is changing and as the clouds cast over my horizon I feel pushed back into the middle. I voyaged to the other side this morning. It was quick, I didn’t even notice I had travelled until I lowered my legs and it was warmer and clearer – I opened my eyes and I was near the shore. I didn’t mind that soon my toes would be immersed in the slimy and scraggly bottom. It was talking to Oxana that did it. She asked about my post-grad, which I don’t have because of time and money and excuses and she said but there is time and there is money and if not there are loans. It is not the money and the time – they are the excuses and every year they change slightly. If I was brave enough to even dare to dream what my heart longs for, but then I would be somewhere different. But I am scared to dream it. I have a fear of flying. Ben has emailed and I am desperately trying to make him believe he is good enough to illustrate a story [not now little whisper – go away] that I wrote. It is being published and although I feel flattered that they have taken me on, I fear it is not for my artistry but more for my efforts. Sweet as it is, I feel I have not done my best but that I couldn’t do any better. How dare I think I could write a story. I only have one story and that is my own, the one that I keep sewing patches on. Recently I attached a new lining to the belly of the blanket and the story is warm and cosy but now only half as interesting as I once thought it were. [Ok little whisper, we can be quiet and together we can contemplate how good I will never be.]


About joberlowbo

A gypsy twitches and throws a needle to the sky. Stitching time and sewing sides, With laughter we dry our tears, Strangle our fears and confront the mirrors smears. Chocolate smudged cheeks. Skin on skin. Sketch pad. Memories fade and are replayed inaccurately and it is actually. Ok.
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